


Bare Against the Madness

by Diary



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Bechdel Test Fail, Canon Disabled Character, Friendship/Love, Gen, Holding Hands, Introspection, Loyalty, Morally Ambiguous Character, Oaths & Vows, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Male Character, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Post-Season/Series 06 AU, Self-Reflection, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 13:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10640475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: Post-season six, Jaime is sent as Cersei's envoy to Winterfell, and he and Brienne talk. Complete.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Game of Thrones.

Jaime remembers pretty, little Sansa Stark with her slightly awkward limbs, thin face, and bright, bubbly eyes.

He sees none of this girl left in the tall, well-developed, calm-eyed Lady Stark. She truly is her lady mother, Catelyn Tully Stark, standing manifest in front of him.

Why, he wonders, were you not made Queen instead of your now King bastard half-brother?

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” she greets in a polite tone with just a hint of ice. “Welcome. I hope you and our Lady Brienne will make it through your visit without incident.”

He’s unsure if this is a veiled threat towards him or if Brienne has had to be repeatedly warned to not strike out against Queen Cersei’s envoy. She’s surprised him in the past with how she’s felt and reacted or not reacted to certain things, but he can easily imagine all the good thoughts and feelings she’s had towards him are now gone. Their shared vow is more-or-less fulfilled unless word of Arya ever reaches their ears, and her words of him having honour to him were said before he stood by the sister who unleased wildfire against her own innocent citizens.

Giving a short bow, he responds, “Lady Sansa. Or is it ‘Princess’, now? Forgive me, I know neither that nor your family name. I’m sure the Maid of Tarth and I have no reason to quarrel. After all, our shared vow towards you is fulfilled, and the lack of it being so towards your sister is due to her, not me.”

Her expression is further, undeniable proof she truly has become her mother’s daughter. “I’m still a Stark, Ser Jaime, just as I was when I was thought to be married to your brother. No, I am not a Princess. And Lady Brienne is not who I hold any blame towards my sister’s unknown status. She is a good and honourable knight who I am proud to have serve the Stark family. Would you like to follow me inside?”

“With pleasure,” he answers.

The silent guards wearing direwolf insignia she brought with her swiftly surround her, and he wordlessly follows.

…

The first place Sansa takes him isn’t inside for bread and salt but to the training courtyard.

He barely notices the guards dispersing.

Sitting on a bench in a long, blue shirt with a direwolf emblem sewn into it, trousers matching the shirt’s colour, and Oathkeeper attached to said trousers, Brienne is quietly watching the training. Her eyes follow the movements of the participants, but something about them tells him she’s only half paying attention.

Podrick, he sees, is no longer the puppyish boy who trotted after Tyrion and all but disappeared into the shadows otherwise. He’s gotten taller, filled out, and now, he fights with strength. There’s a bit of aggressiveness, but he’s mostly defensive in his sparring.

Then, Brienne’s eyes fall on him, and she stands.

Interestingly, Podrick must have been allotting some of his attention towards her despite the sparring. Almost immediately after she stands, he motions for his opponent to stop, and both men stand aside for her.

It doesn’t take long for the other knights and squires to notice this, and upon seeing Sansa, they all stop, too.

Perhaps, he thinks, you will be Queen soon enough. The only question is: Will Jon Snow remain King?

“My lady,” Brienne greets Sansa with a bow. Inclining her head slightly towards him, she neutrally adds, “Ser Jaime.”

Before he can respond, Sansa calls, “Podrick!”

Bounding over, he bows to both women before greeting Jaime with, “Ser.”

“Our Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime here have much to discuss. Lady Brienne, why don’t you take Ser Jaime for a proper walk around Winterfell? Pod, attend your mistress.”

Whereas Podrick's face is relatively neutral, Brienne plainly looks as if she’d rather do anything but. Both, however, chorus, “Yes, my lady.”

…

Silence permeants their walk.  

Inexplicably, he has the urge to reach over and take her hand, to link his fingers through hers, but he knows she’d likely take it as an attack.

Instead, he listens to her soft, solid footsteps and chances small glances at her. Her face has filled out a bit, and he’s grateful to whoever has managed to get her to start consistently eating her fair share. Her hair is cleaner and cut more evenly than he’s ever seen it, and free of dirt, even under the cooler winter sun, her freckles have become much more prominent.

Near the godswood, he nods towards it. “Let’s stop here.”

When they get to the bench and Jaime sits down, Podrick says, “I’ll be nearby, my lady.”

“Thank you, Pod.”

Once the lad’s wandered off, Jaime scoffs. “Tell me, does he mean to protect you should I attack, or is that a subtle warning that you aren’t to attack me?”

Letting out a soft sigh he wishes he could properly decipher, she sits beside him. “How are you, Jaime,” she quietly asks.

Shocked, is the answer.

“I’ve been better,” he manages. “And you, my lady?”

“I’ve been much worse.”

“Hm. Fair,” he says. “Tell me, why don’t I hear the expected anger and disgust woven into your tone? Surely, Sansa wouldn’t keep what happened from her sworn sword. I know for a fact your King didn’t keep it from her.”

“Lord Commander Snow is not my king,” she declares. “The only king I recognise, the only one I likely will until my last day, is Renly Baratheon, First of His Name. I serve Lady Sansa Stark, and I will accept whoever she deems the rightful King or Queen as my master or mistress but nothing more.”

Her annoyingly proud, stubborn, fiercely moralistic nature- It’s a relief to be confronted with it again, he’ll privately admit. Aloud, keeping his tone light, he asks, “And what if she is one day Queen?”

“I will proudly serve as one of her Queensguard.”

“Careful, my lady,” he advises. “There are those not happy about the bastard Snow being called King, even here in the North. Don’t get yourself accused of treason unless you actually mean to commit it.”

“From one kingslayer to another?” Her tone is mirthless and vaguely sardonic but devoid of malice. “I’ve not garnered the scorn you’ve endured, but- Just as you always have, I’ve found it easy to live with myself.”

“Yes, I heard about Stannis. Do you feel any regret at all, my lady?”

“No,” she answers, and he sees the truth clearly in her eyes. “I’ve done all I can for Renly, now. There’s a sense of peace in that.”

“I’m glad for you, Brienne,” he sincerely tells her. “But all the same, if there’s trouble between Sansa and Snow, you need to try to keep it manageable and hidden until after Cersei is dispatched.”

Her eyes snap to his face, and he notices the scars on her face have faded somewhat and are more blended in with the freckles.

“You expected me to champion her after what she did.”

“Yes,” is her simple reply.

Bitterly, he says, “Of course. And after I killed Aerys for only planning such a thing, of course, Ser Jaime the-”

“You love her, Jaime,” Brienne’s tired voice interrupts. “In the bath, you asked what I would do if Renly had ordered the death of my father. How I’d feel about Renly if that ever happened- I can’t say. What I can say is that, if my father ever did anything truly monstrous, he’d still be my father. Whether I could help him or not, part of me would insist on trying. Whether I’d listen to that part or not- She’s your sister.”

Even quieter, she adds, “And she’s even more than that. If you could have, you would have wed her years ago and been a true and faithful husband to her.”

Gods curse her, he feels like crying.

Instead, he shakes his head. “I don’t know if the woman I loved ever existed or if she’s just gone. Either way, the cruel, sadistic, paranoid woman who killed so many innocents- I won’t condemn her for the deaths of the High Septon and all his good little, unholy septons and septas. She didn’t deserve what was done to her. No woman would deserve such a thing.”

“But-” He sighs. “There were other options. She and I talked about them. Even trapped, she wasn’t so afraid she thought this her only way. She wanted rid of Margaery, too, and she wanted to make sure no one would dare challenge her as Queen. She’s always wanted to be Queen above all. I never really- I don’t know if I never realised it or simply didn’t want to.”

Letting out a chuckle, he takes a breath and runs his hand over his eyes to make sure they’re dry before looking over. “Right. Up we go, wench.”

Standing, he tugs her along, and despite a brief resistance in being pulled up, she easily follows.

At the Weirwood heart tree, he undoes his sword and tosses it aside before starting to work on his kingsguard cloak.

“I’ll-I’ll help you,” she offers with confusion radiating everywhere from her eyes to her tone. “Is this- a ritual? Jaime? Should I remove Oathkeeper?”

“No.” Nodding, he lowers his hand.

She deftly removes his cloak, and then, to his amused irritation, carefully folds it and sets it on one of the low, snow-free branches.    

“Now, if you’d be so kind as to help with my armour.”

Her response is to look at him with dubious eyes.

“I can and will do it myself if you won’t.”

Reaching over, she begins.

When she’s done, he removes the gold hand himself and carelessly tosses it aside.

Ignoring her gasp, he kneels down in front of the tree and looks up at her. “Not exactly a ritual, no. Given recent events, I’m sure you can understand why I’d not choose a sept or invoke the Seven. If you’d give me your hand-” He takes it.

“Jamie-” She kneels down. “What is this about? What are-” She stops herself.

“Playing at? Nothing, my lady.”

She scowls, and laughing, he guides her hand over and presses her palm against the tree before covering the back of her hand with his own. “I’m Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, and you, Lady Brienne of Tarth, are the person who sees me truer than anyone ever has and likely ever will. You know my greatest sins and the reasons I committed them. You’ve held me naked and stood before me likewise. I’ve saved you from rape and a bear pit, and you’ve comforted me when my son died at his wedding feast and helped me prevent a war. You and I have fulfilled an oath made together.”

“I’m an oathbreaker, and gods help us both, there might still come a time you and I must truly fight on different sides. But after everything we’ve endured and the respect we’ve come to have for one another, please, Brienne, believe that I wouldn’t lie or otherwise betray you right now.”

He takes a breath. “I came here not as Queensguard and envoy to Cersei but to aid Jon Snow in removing her. Sister or no, past lover or not, Queen Cersei is a Mad Queen, and just as I couldn’t let Aerys continue to reign, I can’t let her, either.” He studies the shade of her attentive eyes. “I’m Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, and like you, I currently accept no man or woman as the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. As such, I’m asking you to convince Lady Sansa Stark and King of the North Jon Snow of my sincerity. I’m kneeling in this godswood, bare of everything but the clothes on my back and my name, and asking you to believe my words.”

Various expressions flicker across her face, but biting her lip and keeping her eyes locked on his, she nods.

Then, slipping her hand out from under his, she presses his palm against the tree.

He manages not to shiver at the feel of her calloused hand gently resting on the back of his. “And I’m Brienne of Tarth, kneeling in this godswood with the sword you gave me, the insignia of the Stark family over my heart, and my name. I believe you, Ser Jaime, and I will help you and gratefully accept your help. I’ll speak to both Sansa and the lord commander on your behalf.”

He thinks this is the end, but her thumb gently strokes his hand. “I’m sorry, Jaime. Know this. This isn’t me doubting you. I’m simply- you loved her so much, and whether you still do or not, I’m sorry for the loss of all your children and the fact you’ve come to a place where you have no choice but to go against your own blood.”

It takes several shaky breathes before he can bring himself to look back at her. Moving his hand, he entwines their fingers together and gently squeezes. “Thank you, Brienne.”

“Are you ready to stand?”

He nods, and they do.

While she’s getting his cloak and armour, he notices Podrick watching them from a distance, but he can’t make out the expression on the lad’s face.

“Before we meet with Lady Sansa and the others, we both need to change. Your legs are absolutely soaked,” Brienne fusses. “After you have salt and bread, Pod can help you…”

Almost as if he heard her, Pod is suddenly striding over. “My lady.”

As far as Jaime knows, no one has worn the coat of arms for Tarth’s house for hundreds of years. Banners containing it might occasionally be put up at Evenfall Hall, but Tarth neither marches into war under them nor, aside from Brienne, marches under any others.

Pod wears no direwolf crest, but whether it’s Brienne or Sansa who holds his loyalty, if there ever is a dispute between the last known legitimate Stark and Ned Stark’s bastard son, both women will have him on their side.

However, if gods forbid, Brienne ever falls- Jaime can’t help but think: The fact he doesn’t wear the crest of Tarth isn’t as important as the fact he doesn’t wear the direwolf Brienne does, either.

A gentle touch on his hand-less arm breaks him out of his thoughts.

“Would you like help,” Brienne asks with his golden hand in her own.

“Yes. Thank you, my lady.”

Her touch pressing on the cloth covering his sensitised flesh- he only just manages to avoid gasping.

“There. I didn’t hurt you, did I,” she asks with slightly worried eyes.

“No, my lady,” he answers. “Thank you.”

I’d ask you to forgive me for all the hurt I ever caused you, flits across his head, but you just might, and then, I’d undoubtedly do something mad myself.

He takes comfort in the thought, if he ever found himself insanely confessing all he really thought about and felt towards her to her, at least, the only person who’d be at risk of being hurt is himself, and gods knows, he’s absolutely no innocent.


End file.
